


Room Service in Hell

by dustandroses



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Character Study, Community: tamingthemuse, Ficlet, Gen, Spike in Giles' Bathtub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 15:25:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustandroses/pseuds/dustandroses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike is bored.  And in hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Room Service in Hell

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt Notes:** Inspiration for this chapter taken from the Live Journal community: Tamingthemuse prompt #373: Cultivate  
>  **Notes:** Thanks to Ozsaur for the image of Spike in Giles' bathtub that got this ficlet started.

Spike was in hell. No, make that a capital – Spike was in _Hell_. Trapped in a bathtub in a Watcher’s bathroom, staring at the bleeding tile, because no one was willing to turn on the bloody telly to assuage Spike’s boredom. He couldn’t reach the damned thing on his own without pulling the pipes right out of the floor, and since he was stuck sitting in that tub, he had no interest in filling his temporary resting place full of water. That meant he was stuck _without the bleeding telly!_

What the hell was he thinking relying on the ‘supposed’ good guys to supply his needs? True, he couldn’t harm anything. At the moment, even a wood sprite could beat him arm wrestling, so he didn’t have a lot of choices. But surely he could have managed something better than sleeping shackled, in a tub, sucking animal blood through a bleeding straw. He could have made an alliance with some local demon clan, and convinced them to help him out with fresh blood in exchange for… exchange for… There had to be something he could do. 

His head fell back against the porcelain with a thud. Bloody hell. He had to be good for _something_ besides fighting. He knew a dozen spoken demon languages, and could write passably in half as many. Maybe he could translate for someone. He knew that there were those who did that sort of thing; he’d gone to them himself, when the need arose. 

The problem was that most demons don’t trust vamps any farther than they can throw them. To be honest, he couldn’t blame them. Most vamps weren’t a bit trustworthy. They expected other demons to keep their word, but when it came to a vamp’s own word, it wasn’t worth a tinker’s damn. No, the only way he’d convince another demon to trust him would be to confess to his own current weakness, and that simply wasn’t happening. 

If other demons knew that he was defenseless, he’d be dust within days. Not that he was the sort to make enemies just for the fun of it. He’d had to be careful, and maintain his ties to the demon community, because with Dru to care for, he’d never known what sort of mess he’d find himself in. As long as he had Dru around, other demons tended to leave them alone. That was probably due to the ingrained notion that spawn, and the mad, were always treated with kid gloves. She’d always brought out the best in demons, making friends where ever they landed. He’d never understood that.

Oh, Dru. His heart _ached_ with want. His dark pearl had always been special, no matter where they’d traveled. He missed her with every fiber of his dead, unbeating heart. But she was far away, and she’d turned her back on him, as if he’d never existed. As if a century of love and care were nothing but offal to be tossed out with the rubbish. No, he was on his own, now.

He’d have to cultivate a friendship with this band of do-gooders, or at least _pretend_ to. Once he’d made himself invaluable to them, they wouldn’t hesitate to help him figure out this mess. Was it a spell? The place had been so sterile and clean. They’d seemed more like scientists than sorcerers. However they’d worked this, the Slayer’s little Scooby snacks would undo it for him, once he’d become a trusted member of their little troupe. And when he was finally free, he’d slaughter them all, for being a witness to his shame. 

In the meantime, he just had to wait – for someone to _turn on this blasted telly_!


End file.
